


Mine Eyes Admire, Mine Heart Adores

by damozel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Bullying, Church of England, First Kiss, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Let's Write Sherlock, Locker Room, M/M, Masturbation, References to Byron, Religion, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rugby, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Plays Rugby, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teenlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/pseuds/damozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reverend John H. Watson leads a contented life as Chaplain and Games Master at the prestigious Harrow School. But all is thrown into turmoil when he encounters a troubled student by the name of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Bingo Card 1 for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 15.
> 
> Rather than produce five individual fics, I've opted to dedicate each chapter of this story to a particular trope.
> 
> Chapter 1: Teen!fic
> 
> This story is set in a fictionalised version of Harrow School. None of the characters are modelled on real people. (Except Benedict Cumberbatch. A little bit.)
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WhatsonHolmes) and [Tumblr](http://rrduscan.tumblr.com/).

Harrow on the Hill was picture perfect that bright Michelmas day. The wind whistled cheerily through the sparse trees, and the late September sun bounced off the tiny village green. A few local shopkeepers came out to witness the annual school festivities, offering the odd treat to pupils as they passed. The younger boys were delighted with this, and tore about squealing. In their short trousers and caps they were a quaint reminder of England past, and even the most hard-hearted onlooker could not fail to be cheered by their smiling faces. The older students fancied themselves considerably more dignified. These clusters of earnest young men would not have looked out of place in the corridors of the Palace of Westminster, with their smart jackets and starched white collars. 'In just a few short years they'll be ready to take their places in the world', mused the Reverend John H. Watson, as he looked on with a certain swell of pride. 'And I'm sure that there's a few fine leaders among them.' 

John's day had already been a long one, so he was happy to stand back and drink in the pleasant rural scene. As Chaplain and Games Master at the prestigious Harrow School, the thirty-three year old had plenty on his plate, even during the Michelmas half-holiday. There had been an early morning prayer service for the more devout boys, followed by an important Sixth Form rugby match to which the parents been invited. John would have liked to devote all of his time to supporting his team, one of the finest squads that he had coached during his three years at the school. But in practice most of his morning had been eaten up in passing pleasantries with representatives of some of the wealthiest families in the Kingdom, the sort of occasion that always made the former army chaplain uncomfortable no matter how many times he rehearsed the form. Children were easier – more open-minded and honest. The parents, on the other hand, often slipped into the less appealing habits of their class, making no attempt to disguise the fact that they believed that the chaplain wasn't cut from the right kind of cloth. 

The background noise became louder and more raucous as the younger boys grew bold, the magic of a little bit of freedom working wonders. And the cream cakes that the local baker was doling out surely added to the giddy mood. Despite John's good humour, the noise began to grate after a while. Suddenly feeling rather tired with it all, he strode away from the heart of the celebrations. His duties for the day were dispensed with, and it was a good opportunity to catch a moment or two to himself. At first he wandered aimlessly, simply taking in the pleasant view from atop the hill. But after a few minutes he realised that his feet were tracing a familiar route. He had drifted towards St. Mary's Churchyard, a favourite haunt during times of reflection. There was a particular reason for his preference. The graveyard contained a memorial to the school's most famous alumnus, Lord Byron himself. A snippet of one of the poet's juvenile poems was recorded on a stone plaque beside the place where he had come to write as a boy, and John now turned to these words once again:

_'...Mine eyes admire, mine heart adores thee still'_

Readers usually assumed that Byron was talking about the love of a beautiful woman, but John preferred to think that the young man was simply enraptured with the stunning panoramic views of the London landscape. Of course he knew that Byron had lived a life of dissipation and excess. Then he couldn't help but imagine the poet as a sensitive, precocious young man. And to feel a pang of sympathy for him. 

The chaplain's thoughts continued in this direction until his romantic reverie was suddenly arrested. John was jolted back to the present moment with a start as he caught sight of a tall, pale, slender figure with dark unruly curls sat on the bench beside the Byron memorial. He was hunched over in an attitude of despair, his head in his hands. 

It took a moment for John to snap out of his fantasy, and to recognise the man. Or more accurately the boy. Not the ghost of Byron come to walk the earth, but a pupil by the name of Sherlock Holmes; a name that John had heard mentioned many times in anger or despair during his time at the school. The word in the Masters' common room was that Sherlock was exceptionally bright, but wasting his talents. He had achieved only the minimum grades required to advance beyond GCSE level, and now looked as if he might only just scrape a place at one of the lower-ranked universities. According to one colleague the boy was rude, uncooperative and unable to get along with his peers. There had also been some whispered rumours about a possible drug habit, and Sherlock had been briefly suspended a few months previously after venturing down to Harrow town late at night. As in many such cases, John suspected that it was the wealth and influence of the boy's parents that had allowed him to continue at the school. He himself had never had much contact with the boy. The older pupils were not obliged to take part in PE lessons or any other sports, and Sherlock had never shown his face in the Chapel. On the few occasions that John had encountered him in the school corridors, Sherlock had deliberately averted his eyes – whether through rudeness or embarrassment he could not tell. 

Yet John was never one to abandon a member of his flock, and the boy looked so utterly miserable and alone that he could hardly stand by and do nothing. The chaplain cleared his throat pointedly and approached with purpose. 'May I sit down?' he asked gently, coming up beside the boy. Sherlock started a little at the unexpected interruption, but quickly regained his composure. Nevertheless, John could detect the tell-tale pink bags beneath his almond-shaped eyes. 

'It's a free country,' grunted Sherlock with a helping of adolescent angst that John would have expected from a third former, rather than an Upper Sixth boy due to turn eighteen that year. There was an awkward silence between the two, but luckily John's years of experience had taught him not to panic. He knew that silence could be a useful tool in delicate situations. So he waited a while to begin. 

'Your parents aren't here today, then?' he ventured eventually. 'Lucky you, getting a bit of time to yourself. I often come here to think when things gets a bit much.' 

'Why on earth would my parents come? I'm hardly the sporting type,' retorted Sherlock angrily. 'Look, you really don't have to do this.' 

'Do what?' replied John calmly. 

'The laid-back-I-know-what-you're-going-through teacher bit,' returned Sherlock. 'No-one knows what I'm going through,' he added under his breathe. 

The boy got up to leave and, as John saw Sherlock's full figure for the first time, he realised just how thin and wasted he really was. There was somebody who needed a few good meals and a dose of healthy exercise, he decided. 

'May I be so bold as to suggest talking about it? It can help you know.' John placed his hand lightly on Sherlock's shoulder, inviting him to sit back down. To his surprise Sherlock obeyed. 'And if you're not interested in my spiel there's a pretty powerful bloke upstairs who's always got His ears open.' 

Sherlock's look could have accompanied the dictionary definition of disdain. 'I'd take my chances with you ahead of thin air,' he replied, almost managing a smile. 'But as far as you lot are concerned my problems don't exist either. St. James of Moriarty can do no wrong.' 

'Jim? Jim Moriaty?' exclaimed John in surprise. 

'There. I said you wouldn't believe me,' said Sherlock petulantly, again making to leave. 

'Please sit down,' instructed John, kindly but firmly. 'I'm not in the habit of assuming that people are liars before I know any of the facts. I'm just surprised. Jim always seems like such a nice young man. But then he's a wonderful rugby player, so perhaps I'm biased,' he added with a wry grin, attempting to lighten the mood. 

'A nice young man if you're on the right side of him,' is all Sherlock said in reply. 

'So Jim's bullying you, is that it?' 

'That's one way of putting it. Manipulating everybody and everything around him is another. Of course he's threatened by my intelligence – he wouldn't target me quite so concertedly if he didn't recognise that I'm the only boy in the school who poses a threat to him.' 

John could now see why so many of his colleagues thought Sherlock arrogant. 'I can see that you're deeply upset by all of this,' he began. 'So can I offer a couple of practical solutions? You're obviously intelligent enough to know that bullies are just cowards. Why not show Jim and his group that you're not afraid of them, and come out for a friendly training session tomorrow morning? You don't need to be built like a rugby player in order to build up your general fitness.' 

'I hardly think that a chin-up can-do attitude will work with the likes of Jim Moriarty,' replied Sherlock scornfully. 

'You won't even think about it? For the sake of an old do-gooder teacher,' tried John, refusing to be defeated. 

Sherlock pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, suddenly looking considerably older than his seventeen years. John thought for a moment that he was beaten, but the boy took him by surprise. 'Okay. I'll think about it. For the sake of an old do-gooder.' Before John had the chance to formulate a response, the young man leaped up and marched away, the tails of his school coat trailing after him in the wind. The chaplain was left alone to ponder the words of Byron once more.

❡

That evening John knelt beside his bed in prayer. Dusk was settling over Harrow village, and the boys were getting ready for bed, but he could not feel at ease. The image of Sherlock's troubled face rose unbidden in his mind's eye, his lips slightly parted, his dark curls in disarray, and his eyes flashing with frustration. John determined that his subconscious was trying to tell him something, and he dedicated himself to a special prayer for the young man. He found it difficult to believe that a clever, warm boy like Jim Moriarty could be the menace that Sherlock described. But it was obvious that Sherlock's fears were all too real. Unable to resolve the difficulty, he chose to put the matter in the Lord's hands, and simply asked that Sherlock would find a way out of his current unhappiness, and find peace and contentment in his adult life. He concluded his petitions, and settled down in bed. As he attempted to sleep, there was another desire that played heavily upon his mind. He hoped against hope that he would see the young man at the friendly rugby practice the following morning. Only time would tell just how naive John's hopes were regarding the outcome of that game.

On the other side of the school, Sherlock Holmes was also feeling perturbed. He had retired to his private bedroom early, the single room being a privilege that was only afforded to the older boys. And once in bed he could not settle. Today he had finally spoken to the man who had occupied his thoughts periodically for the past three years, a man who caused him to blush and lose his composure every time he happened upon him in the school grounds. He had never been able fathom why the rugby-playing clergyman exercised such a force over his imagination, and the cool, hard scientific reasoning that he valued above all things offered no easy solution. It couldn't simply be his broad shoulders and well-formed thighs, could it? It was a question that the young man had failed to face head-on, but tonight he could preserve his defences no longer. He reached beneath his bedsheets and, with the image of the earnest, sandy-haired man forefront in his mind, stroked himself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns some shocking truths about the boys in his rugby team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Bingo Card 1 for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 15.
> 
> Rather than produce five individual fics, I've opted to dedicate each chapter of this story to a particular trope.
> 
> Chapter 2: AU: Sports
> 
> Bullying and homophobic language, references to drug use in this chapter.

Thhh-wack!

The rugby ball spun through the air and hit John lightly in the chest. The games master turned and saw Jim Moriarty smiling innocently up at him. ‘Morning Rev,’ he called, as John threw the ball back underhand, with his usual good humour. Jim lazily tossed it to the boy who stood beside him, his closest friend Sebastian Moran. And the pair set off jogging. The chaplain was deep in thought as he watched the best friends run up and down the pitch that sat on the south side of the main school building, passing the ball casually between themselves. Their actions were accompanied by their customary banter and good-natured teasing. At seven o’Clock in the morning he envied them their energy.

John was still perplexed following his conversation with Sherlock the previous day. He had always respected young Moriarty, particularly on the rugby pitch. Jim was a fairly small boy, but an excellent mover and tactician, and, moreover, a very good motivator for the others – a fact that had led to him being elected as captain at the end of the previous academic year. Seb, on the other hand, was taller and stronger. He might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but he always seemed perfectly harmless and well-meaning. Together the two made a formidable double-act, and they had always done their best for the school team. Perhaps Sherlock’s anxieties had, after all, been the product of some silly rivalry and teenage melodrama, reasoned the chaplain, as he witnessed the boys’ carefree faces laughing merrily in the wind. Or could there be a more sinister reason for Sherlock’s apparent paranoia? He knew that paranoia could be a side-effect of certain kinds of drug abuse, particularly the use of cannabis. 

When John had finally drifted off to sleep the previous night he had been feeling more positive. Despite Sherlock’s bad reputation, he felt that he had made a positive connection with the boy, and that some good might come of it. But, as he looked around the pitch in the cold light of day and saw only his old regulars, he thought better of it. Surely there was no chance of the surly, misanthropic boy dragging himself out of bed at this ungodly hour? 

The clergyman should have had more faith. A tall, curly-headed straggler jogged gently out from the changing block. Sherlock was oddly incongruous in his school PE kit, which looked to have been removed from the packet for the first time that morning. The boy ordinarily dressed in a very formal style that some would consider old-fashioned, even when he was out of school uniform. And John was pretty sure that he had never caught sight of him in a pair of trainers. Despite odd appearances, he observed that Sherlock ran with a nice, easy gait. Perhaps, given his lean figure, his talents would lie on the athletics track. 

‘Right lads,’ announced John, when Sherlock had caught up with the group. ‘Let’s have two laps of the field out of you, before we get down to business.’ 

The training session was a roaring success from John’s perspective. He had deliberately avoided calling attention to Sherlock’s unprecedented attendance, and he was pleased to observe that the other boys responded well to the newcomer, without making a fuss. They made a deliberate attempt to include him in the game, passing the ball in his direction on several occasions. Jim in particular was a great help, calling out constant words of encouragement. John even caught him playfully punching Sherlock’s arm, ruffling his hair, and whispering a few words in his ear. It was nice to see a lonely boy like Holmes included in the lads’ usual rough and tumble and, as he saw the two dark-headed young men standing together, he speculated that the pair might have more in common than either of them imagined. 

John had been correct in assuming that Sherlock was no natural rugby player. He was too tall and gangly to pose much of a threat on the field. Nevertheless, he managed a few decent passes, and John was pleased to observe that his physical condition was nowhere near so poor as he had feared. Despite his frail exterior, the boy seemed to have an inner core of strength, and was barely sweating when the hour’s training came to an end. The chaplain now began to suspect that the rumours about Sherlock’s debauched life-style had been grossly exaggerated.

As the boys headed back to changing block to shower, John strolled over to the chaplaincy; he had not played much of a role in that morning’s game, and therefore did not need to wash and change. To get to his office he must walk through the school’s magnificent Victorian chapel, an inconvenience for which he was privately grateful. No matter how many times he took this route, he always felt the need to stop and check himself, to carefully count his blessings. He took in the knapped flint and ashlar walls and the stunning Gothic features, and wondered, for the umpteenth time, how a man like him – someone who had needed to win a scholarship in order to attend the city grammar school – had ever come to work in a place like this? 

Upon reaching the chaplaincy office he pulled up in annoyance. There on his desk lay an important notice about an upcoming hockey game that needed to be posted in the boys’ changing room. Groaning in irritation at his own forgetfulness, he turned and headed back in the direction from which he had just come. 

The scene that met John’s eyes as he quietly opening the changing room door just a few minutes later was truly shocking. For a moment he was frozen to the spot in horror, unable to fully comprehend what he saw. Sherlock stood entirely naked, dripping wet from the shower. His back was turned towards the chaplain, and Moran had him pinned against the wall. Jim stood by laughing, a soaking towel in his hand. Several angry red marks were already visible on Sherlock’s pale backside. ‘Checking me out were you, faggot?’ cackled Moriarty, jabbing roughly at Sherlock’s protruding ribs. ‘Here’s another one for the fag. Don’t get off on it now!’ He swung the wetted towel at Sherlock’s trembling buttocks, and struck him hard. The rest of the boys looked on nervously, and the smallest – a lad by the name of Philip Anderson – looked like he might burst into tears. But not one of them attempted to intervene.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ roared John, shocking the assembled students with both his sudden presence and the force of his voice. Reverend Watson rarely shouted at his students, but he was now understandably white hot with anger. ‘Sherlock, cover yourself up and come with me. You two I’ll deal with later,’ he added, shooting a last furious look in the direction of Moriarty and Moran.

Ten minutes later Sherlock was seated on the edge of the bed in John’s private ground-floor rooms sipping a hot chocolate with a warm blanket carefully tucked around him.

‘I’m so, so sorry Sherlock,’ began the chaplain, overcome with emotion and anxiety. For the first time since taking his orders he felt that he had truly failed in his duties. ‘I – I should have taken you more seriously. Jesus Christ. I don’t even know where to begin. This – this hasn’t happened before has it?’ 

‘It was never this bad before,’ started Sherlock, his voice wavering. ‘I avoided situations like this for a reason. And you’ve no need to be sorry. Moriarty is very, very good at what he does. The whole school lives in fear of him, our form in particular. But he’s worked at getting the masters on side since we arrived here as innocent first formers. By this point he’s practically untouchable.’

He was trying to put a brave face on it, but the chaplain could see that the young man was dying inside, horribly shaken by the violation that had just occurred. John himself was close to tears. ‘You put yourself in harm’s way in order to please me,’ he managed to get out. ‘Because I wanted you at the training session.’ 

The two sat in complete quiet for some minutes, with Sherlock sipping methodically at his drink as though he couldn’t really taste it. Eventually John broke the silence. He didn’t relish the idea of pursuing such a distressing topic of conversation with a boy who was already in bits, but he needed to have as full a picture as possible if the situation was to be properly addressed.

‘When did it start?’ he asked gently, taking the cup from Sherlock’s now-quivering hands, and looking straight into his deep green-grey eyes. ‘The bullying, I mean?’

‘I knew that something was wrong from the moment I arrived in the first form,’ said Sherlock, looking down at his lap. His jogging bottoms were damp as he hadn’t had time to dry off properly, and he pulled the blanket more firmly about himself. ‘My older brother was very happy here, but in our dorm it was nothing like he described. Jim ruled the roost from the off, and unfortunately I wasn’t so good at keeping under the radar as a cocky eleven-year-old. Of course Jim knew that I was gay before I did, so he always had a stick to beat me with – metaphorically and literally so it turns out.’ Sherlock made an effort to turn the corners of his mouth upwards at his own small joke, and the effect was quite disconcerting. ‘During the first couple of years I got his back up by constantly beating him to top of the form, and it continued from there.’

‘You? Top of your class?’ John couldn’t help exclaiming. 

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ retorted Sherlock, almost managing a genuine chuckle. ‘I only started to do badly when I cottoned on to the fact that it might be my ticket out of here. Unfortunately it didn’t quite pan out that way. My parents gave up a lot for us to come here, and my brother didn’t want them to be distressed by my failings. So he took over the management of my school career, and talked the headmaster out of excluding me when things were at their worst. He’s an influential man in the British Government at the tender age of thirty, so he managed to get his way. I’d initially planned to fail the GCSEs, and get out of here at sixteen. But Mycroft – my brother – had one of his little talks with me. He can be very persuasive,’ explained Sherlock, rolling his eyes heavenwards, as the chaplain listened intently. ‘He pointed out that I’d never survive back at home with mummy and daddy. So I put in just enough effort at the last minute to get the necessary GCSEs. Now I don’t really care where I go to uni. I just want to be somewhere that Jim and Seb are not.’ Sherlock stopped and cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Mycroft also said that a lot of boys – boys _like me_ – get on very well once they’re at college,’ he said, his cheeks pinking up.

‘Look, Sherlock, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all. And your brother’s right. Please set no store by the vile things those boys said.’

‘That’s rich coming from an Anglican preacher!’

‘The Church has changed Sherlock. It might surprise you to learn that I know a number of gay vicars – ’

‘ – But it would be dreadfully inappropriate for you to talk to me about your own situation, like a real human being,’ interrupted Sherlock, reverting to the sulky, sarcastic behaviour that he had displayed the previous day. ‘And no sign of an openly gay bishop on the horizon. Ah, the Church of England! As in so many things, praiseworthy only for the heights of its hypocrisy.’

‘Well if you must know, I am gay. You’re practically an adult, and old enough to know that much. It’s something I struggled with for many years. But I’ve come to terms with who I am, and I’m very happy with my life. I promise that it will be the same for you one day,’ he said, his voice still heavy with sympathy. ‘I choose not to enter into a relationship because of my faith, but your choices, of course, will be your own.’ Protocol be damned, John put his arms around the boy’s shoulder and gave him a tight reassuring squeeze.

‘I respect your honesty, Reverend Watson,’ Sherlock returned simply. He leaned his forehead against the older man’s shoulder, desperate to hide the fact that tears were rising. With a supreme effort of will he held himself together, and looked up into John’s eyes. The older man’s handsome, lined face was etched with worry and concern, and Sherlock felt more safe and secure than he could ever remember. ‘I always knew. About you. That’s why I avoided you in school,’ he said, to which John raised his eyebrows in surprise, and perhaps alarm. 

That look was the thing that tipped the boy over the edge. Driven on by a powerful surge of hormones, he leaned further into the chaplain’s embrace, and ran his hand lightly up the man’s thigh, briefly catching the swelling in John’s loose combat trousers. The soft moan that escaped from the young man’s lips was utterly obscene, and laced with desire. With a virgin’s enthusiasm and ineptitude he thrust himself forwards, sucking greedily at John’s open, startled mouth. He was vaguely frightened of John’s rejection, and of the repercussions of what he was doing. But any such rational considerations were crowded out by one overpowering desire. The wish to take the good chaplain’s hardness in his hand, and watch him fall apart with pleasure. 

John, for his part, didn’t object. At first he drank as hungrily as Sherlock, running his desperate tongue around the boy’s open, clumsy mouth. _It’s been far, far too long_ , his body screamed out, as feelings and sensations that he had all but forgotten rose to the surface once more. He met the boy’s moan with a protracted, longing grunt of his own, turning to the side and thrusting lightly against his thigh. Then he took the inexperienced young man by the chin, and guided him into a tender, more delicate kiss. 

A minute or two elapsed before the chaplain came to his senses, and pulled back in alarm. He pushed Sherlock away with some force, and scrambled to his feet. Turning his face to the wall of his small bedroom, he knocked his forehead rhythmically against the exposed brickwork. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,’ he muttered, pummelling the wall with his clenched fist.

Sherlock rushed over to console him, but John again pushed the boy away. ‘You’ve been seriously hurt while under my care, and now I’ve taken advantage of you,’ he cried, tears pouring down his cheeks. ‘This never, never should have happened,’ he continued in anguish. ‘You must go, Sherlock. Please leave me now.’

As Sherlock left the building that housed the staff living quarters, heavy with confusion and despair, he failed to notice the boy who was tucked amongst the shadows in a corner of the main quad. It was the diminutive figure of Jim Moriarty and, through the gap in the chaplain’s blinds, he had witnessed everything that had just occurred.

❡

Sherlock didn’t dare take the main road down the hill towards Harrow town proper as he sneaked away from the school grounds many hours later. Teachers and grounds staff would be driving in and out at that time in the evening, and today of all days he couldn’t face the ordeal of being dragged before his house-master by an officious individual. The atmosphere in that afternoon's A'Level Chemistry lesson had been unbearable, but the teacher had continued as normal – leaving Sherlock to deduce that John had not yet reported the incident in the changing rooms. From the vacant look on Seb’s face it was clear that he had no idea what was going on, and Moriarty had carefully avoided his eye.

He made his way down the hillside, groping through the trees and overgrown grass in the twilight. For the second time in as many days he had let his rational mind give way to his baser urges, and he was furious with his body for its betrayal. But somehow he couldn’t claw back control. Good resolutions aside, there was one thought that now overwhelmed him as he thought back in anger to all that had happened. He was desperate for a fix.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Moran is a puppet on a string when it comes to Moriarty's vile plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Bingo Card 1 for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 15.
> 
> Rather than produce five individual fics, I've opted to dedicate each chapter of this story to a particular trope.
> 
> Chapter 3: Minor Character Focussed (Sebastian Moran). Naturally there is also a fair bit of John and Sherlock.

‘You’ll do it or you’ll be sorry.’

Jim twisted his face into a parting sneer before stalking out of the room, leaving Seb alone to contemplate his proposition. Seb was not a boy who had mastered the art of introspection, but the idea that his ‘friend’ had put before him was horrible enough to set even his limited mind spinning. He paced around his tiny bedroom in frustration, longing for a physical outlet for his revulsion. Or, if he was honest, simply somebody to talk to. 

At a loss for what to do with himself, Seb stared desperately into the smeared mirror that hung over his dirty bedroom sink, running his fingers aggressively through his over-long hair, cut in a curtain style. It was a look that he had chosen in the hope that it would be both rugged and alluring, but the face that now stared back at him was only that of a strained, sleep-deprived boy. The contraband images of busty, half-naked women that were pinned around the glass now seemed to taunt him with their very presence. And so did the stash of weed that was stuffed behind the frame. Yes, being henchman to Mr. James Moriarty had come with certain privileges. There had been many nights when his classmates had crowded into his room to peruse his unrivalled porn collection. But none of that would help him now. After long years of intimidation and abuse it was hardly surprising that every member of the form hated and feared the pair in equal measures. Anyone with even an ounce of common sense would remain wary of Jim no matter what he did. With his vile tongue and supple, scheming mind he could inflict unlimited damage upon a rebellious individual. On the other hand, his classmates would know that there was a strict limit to what Seb could do alone. His only weapon was sheer brute force. 

Moran was a straightforward enough creature to acknowledge that he relied on Jim. The boy had not the brains or talents to keep apace with the high academic standards demanded by one of the nation’s leading public schools. It was only his family connections that had landed him there in the first place, and without Jim’s guiding hand in countless coursework assignments – and the odd stray examination paper thrown in his direction – he would doubtless have been forced to leave the school at sixteen after failing his GCSEs. The disgrace to the family name would have been immense. Both of his parents were high-powered individuals, who had never quite been able to fathom why they were blessed with such dull-witted progeny. And the lack of any siblings had certainly not helped matters. Perhaps they would have farmed him out to ‘assist’ with one of his mother’s business interests overseas; the embarrassing son shipped as far away as possible. But with Jim’s help he could do anything, be anything that he wanted to be. As Moriarty’s ally he could follow his dad into parliament if he wished, keeping his father happy and quenching his own desire for power in one fell swoop. To be free of his parents’ controlling influence was a dream in itself, but of course Jim would always be there in the background, quietly pulling the strings.

The logic of the plan was simple enough. He and Jim would almost certainly be expelled if Reverend Watson told the headmaster about the incident in the changing rooms. And who knew what else Sherlock had let slip to the clergyman? Therefore John Watson must be silenced and discredited. It was not in Jim’s nature to get his hands dirty. So it was down to Seb. All he need do was make an appointment with the headmaster. Tell him about the times when the chaplain has asked him to stay behind after rugby practice. The fond words and casual touches that had made the innocent young lad feel ever more uncomfortable. Touches that eventually led to so much more. The thought made Seb’s blood run cold. He couldn’t bare to imagine his father’s face when he was told. Perhaps he’d be secretly amused by the thought of his hopeless son being buggered by a vicar.

‘There is, of course, an alternative,’ purred Moriarty, putting his head back around the door. ‘If you could catch the pair of them at it there’d be no need for you to stand up and tell the world that the vicar’s been bending you over his knee.’

‘Who’s been at it?’ replied Moran, baffled and taken aback by his friend’s sudden, uncanny reappearance.

‘Watson and Holmes of course. It’s only eight o’Clock on this bright and beautiful morning. I’ll give you until midnight to sort it.’

❡

It was seven o’Clock in the evening before Sherlock finally staggered up the hill towards the school. He couldn’t remember exactly where he had slept, or for how long. He did know that all of his cash was gone, and that his precious Belstaff overcoat was covered in a foul bodily fluid. He pulled it around himself for comfort regardless. A tiny part of his brain told him that he had serious things to work out, but his predominant concern was with placing one foot in front of the other. _One step, two step, tickly under there!_ , his mind suddenly sang out, causing him to fall about in hopeless hysterics. It was a game that Mycroft had played with him when he was very young. 

Sherlock barely noticed as he stumbled past an uncharacteristically serious looking Sebastian Moran, who was pacing up and down the courtyard. He was too interested in the pretty patterns that the fallen autumn leaves formed on the path. Yet something of a survival instinct must have kicked in. This was the longest, heaviest binge of his life, and his system was seriously addled. _You need help_ , his brain whispered momentarily, before flipping back to a more pleasant image of snowflakes on roses. Rather than turn towards the annexe that contained his own bedroom, he headed for the staff living quarters. Fortunately the corridors were quiet at that time in the evening, and he reached John’s room undisturbed. 

John leapt up from his writing desk as soon as he heard the faint knock at the door. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ he demanded with a painful mixture of anger and relief. The boy almost fell into his arms as John slammed the door behind him, but the chaplain pulled away. ‘It’s all over the school that you absconded today. Do you know how much trouble you’re in?’

‘I know that you were in Iraq or Afghanistan,’ slurred Sherlock, eyeing the chaplain up and down as if he saw him for the first time.‘’S all in the posture. You came home because of a personal crisis, no? Not your sexuality – that was a long time ago. This was to do with your brother,’ he concluded, with a smug smile. 

‘Sister,’ retorted John, before he could stop himself. Despite everything he couldn’t help but be a little bit fascinated by the boy’s incredible deductions. 

‘There’s always something,’ grumbled Sherlock, sticking out his bottom lip like a toddler. ‘Want to know how I did it?’ he demanded, undeterred. ‘Can tell by your phone.’ He lunged for John's mobile, and promptly fell flat on his face.

Helping him up was no easy matter. His long limbs were floppy, and seemed to be everywhere at once. And Sherlock was more interested in ‘deducing’ the stains on John’s carpet than helping his own recovery. Nevertheless, John eventually managed to lay him down on the bed. It was obvious from Sherlock’s slurred speech and wild eyes that he was absolutely 'off his face' as the army lads would have put it. And the vicar was pretty clueless about how to deal with it. He had completed standard military first aid training, but that hadn’t covered drug abuse on this scale. So he chose to rely on good old fashioned common sense. Striding over to the sink, he poured out a pint of water, and held it to Sherlock’s lips until he had drank at least half. Then he removed the filthy coat and flung it into the corner. He was saddened, but not surprised, by the sight of fresh needle-marks on the boy’s forearm. Bruises were already beginning to form around the entry points, like dirty footmarks across the pure, soft flesh. There was nothing more to do but to cover him with a blanket, and keep him warm and comfortable. 

Now that Sherlock was calm and settled, John had no idea what to do next. He could, of course, go to the headmaster and tell him everything. By the morning he would be packed and gone, and Sherlock would receive the help he needed. Then the consequences of a senior Harrow pupil being found in this state would surely be disastrous for the boy, a boy who was quite possibly at the most important crossroads of his life. He couldn’t throw him to the wolves like that. Not when he was at his most vulnerable. 

They were already through the looking glass, and surely no more damage could be done. Knowing in his heart of hearts that he was making excuses for his own appalling conduct, he crawled onto the bed beside Sherlock, and took the poor broken boy up in his arms. Sherlock deserved so much better than the cards life had handed him so far, and, if he was honest with himself, John wanted to be the one to give it to him. Stroking the young man's back tenderly he rocked him gently to sleep. The decisions could wait until morning.

John was not sure how long they had lain there, but the night had fully set in when he was awakened by a faint rustling in the doorway. As his eyes began to focus he made out the tall bulk of a man, or a boy. ‘Sorry Rev,’ smirked Moran, with a leering smile plastered across his face. Before John had fully come to, Seb was stood over the bedstead, and John picked out the distinct sound of metal against metal. ‘This one’s a present from my special collection,’ he crowed. He clicked the silver bracelet onto John’s wrist and fastened it into place. With the deftness of a leopard he looped the chain through the heavy bed-head and fastened the adjoining handcuff to Sherlock, before marching triumphantly out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now chained together, can Sherlock and John escape before it's too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Bingo Card 1 for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 15.
> 
> Rather than produce five individual fics, I've opted to dedicate each chapter of this story to a particular trope.
> 
> Chapter 4: Handcuffed/ Tied together

As the figure of Sebastian Moran departed, John pulled against his bonds with all his might. But the chain held fast. The metal was already cutting into his wrist and, tough as that old, sun-hardened skin was, it bloody well hurt. ‘Sherlock. Shhherlock!’ he hissed frantically, the panic rising.

‘Mmm, didn’t know you were kinky Rev,’ the young man murmured in response, rolling over to face John and playfully jangling the cuff that held him. His eyes were narrow slits, and his mind was still somewhere between sleeping and waking. ‘I thought it was only Catholic priests who were into that sort of thing,’ he added with a smirk. ‘Personally I’d prefer to start with the riding crop, but what the hell we can give this a go.’ 

‘Sherlock, I didn’t do this and this isn’t a joke,’ growled John, his intonation growing louder with every word as he grasped at the boy's shoulder, attempting to rouse him to full awareness. ‘Moran was here.’

John managed to reach and pull the chord that operated the bedside light, as Sherlock dragged himself into a sitting position and adjusted his clothing, wiping the sleep from the corners of his eyes with his one free hand. The change that Sherlock underwent within the space of a few short seconds was astonishing. Gone was the dopey, drug-addled boy whose hormones had overtaken him just a few short hours ago, and in his place was a powerful young man who was all intensity and determination. His shirt sleeves had now rolled down, covering the vicious marks that insulted his complexion, and John was reminded of the strong, healthy boy who had jogged out onto the training pitch. Excepting, of course, the fact that he was now chained to the chaplain’s bed. The smell that Sherlock emitted was fairly grim, and he had obviously sweated heavily in his sleep. But bad odours aside, he looked as composed and determined as any of the military tacticians that John had encountered in his time. Even his hair seemed to have somehow flopped neatly into place. 

‘How long since Moran left?’ demanded Sherlock, manoeuvring so that he could look the chaplain square in the eye. 

‘Just a couple of minutes,’ John choked out, failing to match his companion’s calm tone. ‘Do you know why the bloody hell he would do this?’ he demanded, the hysteria beginning to break through.

There was an obvious role reversal between teacher and pupil as Sherlock laid a calming hand upon John's quivering body. 'There's no need to panic,' he began evenly. ‘Moriarty’s simply got hold of the fact that there’s something going on between us,' he began, blushing just a little. 'And he’s realised that exposing you is his “get out of jail free” card when it comes to – to what went on in the changing room.’ Sherlock's breath hitched ever so slightly as he made reference to his humiliation at the hands of Jim and Seb. ‘Moriarty must have assumed that you would report the incident at the earliest possible opportunity, so he now needs to use his trained monkey in order to undermine your word.' He looked over to the table that sat to John’s right hand side, which was covered with discarded, crumpled sheets of paper. ‘However, I see from the state of your writing desk that you’ve made no such report.’

‘What the – how did you know that?’ exclaimed John in surprise.

‘Never mind that now,' returned Sherlock impatiently. ' _Why_ didn’t you tell?’ he asked more softly. 

‘Because I’m a coward. A coward who is undeserving of a teaching position over fine young men like yourself,' began John, his voice cracking. 'I thought that if I spoke about what had happened it would all come tumbling out. About you and me. And I couldn’t bear that. Not yet. Then I decided to write out my resignation, and report the incident at the same time.’ He tilted his head towards the messy desk. ‘As you can see, that didn’t work out either.’ 

‘You’re neither a coward nor undeserving, so let's lose the hair shirt for now,’ replied Sherlock, his eyes crinkling affectionately. For a moment the two seemed lost in their mutual regard for one another, each drinking in the other’s presence in their sudden, forced proximity. This time it was John who roused himself in order to tackle the emergency at hand.

‘I still don’t understand. If Moran wanted to expose us, wouldn’t he try to creep up and snatch a photo of us on his phone? This set-up seems far too elaborate.’

‘I suspect our Mr Moran has a taste for public humiliation that is, in its own special way, as pronounced as Moriarty’s,’ replied Sherlock, with a cold glint in his eye. ‘I imagine that he’ll rather enjoy catching us with our trousers down, metaphorically speaking of course. In any case, photos can be tampered with. Living proof is the best proof of all.’

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ said John, his voice dull. ‘But none of that really helps us now,’ he added, pulling uselessly at the cuff once more. The panic was rising again.

‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ said Sherlock with a smile. ‘These things are rarely so hard to pick as most people imagine.' He bent his head and began to fiddle with the cuff on his wrist, but after a few minutes he looked up in surprise and frustration. His desperate expression said it all. ‘It’s no good Reverend Watson,' he declared eventually. 'I can’t do it.’

❡

It was well into the early hours of the morning before Sebastian Moran entered the building that housed the staff living quarters once more. He had hesitated after fastening Sherlock and John to the bed, but he now must face the inevitable. Trembling from head to foot he entered the inner sanctuary of the school. The headmaster’s private rooms were strictly off limit to the boys, and the nearest Moran had come was his annual start of year interview in the headteacher's office, which panned out the same way each time. Dr Latouche would congratulate him for his prowess on the rugby field and his team spirit, before giving him a stern ticking off about his academic performance, and threatening him with parental intervention if things did not improve. The thought of disturbing such a dignified, authoritative man in his pyjamas and dressing gown caused a wave of nausea to rise. But with the words of Moriarty’s threat ringing in his ears he gathered up the last scraps of his courage, and knocked timidly on the bedroom door.

‘What is it,’ came a bleary voice from within. If it was possible, Dr Latouche looked even graver and more austere in the half-light that was cast by the single bulb that lit the corridor as he came to the bedroom door. The deep lines that illustrated his face were cast in sharp relief by the shadow, and his modest grey beard now seemed a veritable forest. ‘Moran?’ hazarded Latouche, scraping the name from the back of his memory banks. ‘What is it my boy? Has there been an accident?’

‘No – no accident,’ stammered Moran, trying to gather himself. Despite being over six feet in height, he felt himself revert to the position of a nervous first former, fresh out of prep school. ‘I – I think Reverend Watson told you something about me and Jim today,’ he managed to get out. ‘I wanted you to know that it’s not true.’

‘As it happens I haven’t seen the reverend today,’ replied Latouche, trying to gather his wits after waking from a deep sleep. Now that he had begun to fully comprehend the situation, he was becoming increasingly annoyed. ‘And I sincerely hope that’s not the only reason for you coming here. I would take an extremely dim view of a senior pupil disturbing me in the middle of the night in order to tell tales. You should take nonsense like this to your housemaster. During the _daytime_ ,’ he added grimly. 

‘No, that wasn’t all,’ returned Moran, growing bolder in response to the sting of the headmaster’s disapproval. ‘It’s Holmes sir. Sherlock Holmes. I think that Reverend Watson is hurting him,’ Moran said, adopting his best impression of juvenile innocence.

‘In what sense hurting him?’ returned Latouche, taken aback by the sudden disclosure.

‘I can show you sir,’ replied Moran, injecting as much sincerity as possible into his words. ‘He’s got Holmes tied up in his bedroom right now.’

A dark cloud passed over the headmaster’s face. ‘I hope for your sake that you’re right about all this, as I wouldn’t look lightly upon a false accusation of this magnitude against a member of my staff,’ he declared as he marched past the boy, and down the corridor towards Reverend Watson’s rooms. ‘Then again, I hope that you’re wrong,’ he muttered, more to himself. 

The short stretch of corridor that led to John's rooms suddenly seemed a mile long, and both Moran and Latouche breathed in sharply as the headmaster eventually reached the chaplain's bedroom door. Never a man to delay in times of crisis, Latouche swung the door open with some force. Seb anticipated with glee the sight of the helpless, prostrate figures that he had tied to their fate a short while earlier, and the headmaster's subsequent anger and disgust. If Watson thought that he could undo the years of work that he had put into building a reputation at the school, then he had another think coming. The pair entered the room fully, and the headmaster switched on the light. In that moment Moran braced himself for the sudden exposure, and had to suppress his triumphant grin. But all that could be seen was an empty, neatly made bed, and the abandoned writing desk. Sherlock and the chaplain had disappeared.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John must face some troubling questions about their relationship, and about themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Bingo Card 1 for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 15.
> 
> Rather than produce five individual fics, I've opted to dedicate each chapter of this story to a particular trope.
> 
> Chapter 5: Author's Choice

As dawn broke over the Middlesex countryside the silhouette of two figures arose beside the Byron memorial in St. Mary’s Churchyard, Harrow on the Hill. The younger man possessed a fine profile and a lithe, supple frame, which tapered to almost nothing at the waist, but recovered itself to produce a tight, pert backside and long, elegant legs. His bright eyes sparkled with the restless energy of a young man who has his whole life before him, and is determined to take it by the horns, whatever the cost. No-one could have caught sight of the boy that morning without feeling moved, and intimidated, by the sheer power and intensity that his figure conveyed. Excepting, perhaps, the person who sat beside him. The older man was a little more careworn and frayed around the edges. A few stray grey hairs populated his sandy-coloured head, and the first signs of muscle running to fat were visible around his stomach. Nonetheless, his still-handsome face possessed a vigour and fire that, in its own particular way, mirrored the boy's own. He held his companion with the protectiveness of a husband of thirty years, looking down at the teenager with unmasked admiration. 

‘So now that I’ve finally got my breath back are you going to tell me how you got those bloody handcuffs undone?’ John asked. He was striving to keep a clear head, but was distracted by the sight of Sherlock’s full-bodied lips which, chafed and inflamed as they now were, seemed more enticing than ever. 

‘Just watching the sunrise,’ mumbled Sherlock, fluttering his eyelashes with exaggerated innocence, and nuzzling back against the chaplain’s shoulder. In the pink first light of day he could easily have been mistaken for a heavenly body, but John knew better than to fall for the angelic routine. Not ten minutes since, Sherlock had been on his knees giving John the best blow job of his life. As before, he had been clumsy and overly enthusiastic at first, but soon developed a technique; responding to even the slightest groan or flicker from the chaplain. Yes, his smooth alabaster neckline was a thing of great beauty. But it had also been put to spectacular practical use when sucking John hard and deep.

‘You don’t get away with it that easily,’ John laughed, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind Sherlock’s ear, and cupping his face in his hands. ‘One moment we’re up shit creek without a paddle, and the next you’re dragging me through the village.’

‘There was a safety catch. There’s always a safety catch,’ Sherlock replied with a smug smile. ‘Bondage enthusiasts would get into all kinds of trouble if there wasn’t.’

‘You mean they weren’t even proper handcuffs,’ John spluttered. ‘How on earth did you know?’ Despite his amazed tone he wasn’t wholly convinced by the young man’s cocky response. He had seen for himself the look of sheer panic in Sherlock’s eyes in the seconds before he worked the catch free, and led them both to safety.

‘Recognised the model,’ retorted Sherlock. ‘Not from personal experience, you understand,’ he added, as John’s jaw slowly descended towards the floor. ‘No, this little beauty is a personal favourite of Messrs Moriarty and Moran.’ He jangled the cuffs playfully in front of John's astonished faced, before irreverently tossing them onto a nearby gravestone. 

‘You mean they’re together? After everything they said to you!’

‘ “Together” isn’t quite the right way of putting it,’ said Sherlock, resting a cool hand on John’s cheek. ‘That would imply some kind of relationship of equals. Moran is Moriarty’s plaything, and Moriarty knows how to push the right buttons. Seb likes to receive while in restraints.’ The boy was striving to adopt a matter-of-fact tone, but collapsed into helpless giggles at this last remark. 

‘I’m glad somebody finds all this amusing,’ said the chaplain sternly. Now that the hazy, post-orgasmic bubble had burst, the seriousness of the situation was hitting him afresh. ‘But you know this isn’t over. I can tell the headmaster that I stayed with friends tonight, but that doesn’t stop Moriarty spinning another web of lies when I report the assault in the changing rooms. If Moriarty’s everything that you say he is – and I don’t doubt it for a second – then he'll have the others saying anything he damn well pleases in order to discredit me. He could wrap the likes of little Philip Anderson around his finger in a heartbeat.’ 

‘It is over,’ said Sherlock, now calm and utterly collected. ‘The handcuffs weren’t the only thing that I found in the course of my, er, _investigation_ of my colleagues. I also took the liberty of burning myself a copy of Moran’s email archive. Some interesting details about the drug-dealing business those two have been running since the third form on there. Along with the sweet nothings, of course. Come to think of it, it’s time I sent our friends a message with a link to my copy of the data. Just in case they get any clever ideas before morning school.’ 

As Sherlock tapped away on his iPhone, John looked on in amazement for the second time that morning. _Is there anything that man can’t do_ , he mused, letting out a deep sigh. The wave of relief was, however, only short-lived respite. It could not soothe the anxieties that had been wreaking havoc for the past forty-eight hours. Those fears – fears about who he was at his very core – were even more intense than the threat of Moriarty. Finally taking the bull by the horns, he asked the inevitable question. ‘And what next?’

Sherlock raised his eyebrows quizzically, waiting for the chaplain to expand. 

‘You must know that what I’ve been doing is very, very wrong,’ he began with some force. ‘Jesus Sherlock, you’re a student in my care – ’

‘ – Please stop punishing yourself,’ interrupted Sherlock, pulling himself up into a sitting position, and taking John by both hands. ‘I’m eighteen in three weeks, and – and pretty much head over heels for you,' he said, producing a bright endearing blush at confessing what was already apparent. 'I can assure you that you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. In fact if anyone’s an innocent here it’s surely the man who wears the white collar.’ He looked playfully down towards John’s neck, and then to his groin, in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood.

‘It's not just to do with your age, Sherlock. I've been entrusted with a position of power over you. A position that I've abused.' He ran his hands anxiously through his hair. 'I just never thought I’d turn out to be that kind of a man,’ he added simply.

‘And what _kind of a man_ is that? Somebody who was brave enough to minister in a war zone when he could have been tucked up safely at home? Who reached out to the "problem pupil" when everybody else turned their backs? A man who’ll risk everything – his career, his liberty even – for someone he cares about,’ demanded Sherlock. ‘You can’t carry on denying who you are forever.' 

‘I can’t carry on here, either,’ was all John said in response.

‘Perhaps that’s true,’ replied Sherlock, conveying a wisdom far beyond his years. ‘But there’s no need to throw away everything you’ve worked for, everything you stand for. Talk to your Bishop – tell him that you want to apply for a nice, quiet, conventional rural parish. You could even mention that you’re in a relationship with a younger man. And waiting to see how things go. If he accepts it, he accepts it. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t.’

‘Is that what this is? A relationship?’ said John dubiously. 'We hardly know each other.' Even as the words came out, he realised that they were untrue. They might only have spent a few stolen hours together, but the chaplain already felt that the boy was a part of his heart and soul. 

‘Yes,’ returned Sherlock, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘And for my part I promise to stay here and clean my act up. We can think again once I’ve finished my A’Levels. Although I’m hoping that you’ll let me see you before then,’ he added with a coy smile. 'I'm afraid you'll have to deal with the fact that I'm a raging atheist, who has absolutely no intention of "seeing the light." ' 

John was knocked for six by the sudden maturity of this troubled boy, who was more than ten years his junior. And he was also wracked from head to toe with insecurity. ‘You won’t want to wait for me,’ he said at last, examining the backs of his lined hands. ‘Believe me, once you get off to uni there’ll be plenty of brighter fish in the sea. In fact, once Moriarty and Moran are gone from here I should expect that you’ll get a few offers.’ He tried and failed to muster a smile.

‘Believe me, I’ll wait. Who else could cope with a slightly deranged, drug-addled misfit who spends his free time stalking his arch-nemesis, and analysing his bondage gear?’ 

John couldn’t help but grin at that, shaking his head in disbelief at the same time. There were so many questions left unanswered, so much mental chaos to wade through. Yet in that moment, there was only one way to respond. He reached out to Sherlock, and clasped him tightly in his arms. ‘At least I’d know what I was letting myself in for,’ he murmured at last. 'Though I expect you've seen the end of Jim Moriarty.' He looked down at the boy; a boy that he had seen at his weakest and most vulnerable. And suddenly realised that he was now seeing a man. The teenager's inner strength had never shone brighter, and John recognised with a jolt that he could tackle whatever was thrown his way with this person by his side. _Let people talk: they do little else_ , he thought defiantly. Taking Sherlock by the chin, he tenderly sealed his commitment with a kiss.


End file.
